Perfectly Unhappy
by sub0chick
Summary: Angelus doesn't have a chance in hell of ever resurfacing


**Title**: Perfectly Unhappy

**Author**: jujukittychick

**Fandom**: Angel/Buffy: the Vampire Slayer

**Cast**: Angel

**Warnings**: angst, brief m/f, one sided Angel/Xander

**Rating**: R

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything except the computer I'm typing this on and am making no money. Buffy and Angel belong to their respective creators and owners who *are* making money off them. I'm just doing this for my own fun and entertainment; in general, if you recognize something, I don't own it.

**Beta**: NONE! Any mistakes are my own

**A/N**: So yeah, haven't written anything in forever, have umpteen different stories that need new chapters and this lovely piece of angst decides it needs to be written instead. Go figure. On the upside, I'm like halfway through with the next chap of Kitten's Claws and it's going to be a long chapter

Angel gripped the hips under his hands tighter, thumbs pressing into the little dimples above plump ass cheeks as he thrust harder into the slick heat encasing his cock, the girl's moans becoming more frantic. Feeling almost detached from reality, he watched as her head fell back, long blonde hair sliding over pale shoulders as her body clenched rhythmically around him. A few more thrusts and he was riding the high of his own orgasm even as he fought to remain in his human guise - don't want to scare the little humans after all.

Pulling out of the blonde, he collapsed on the bed, reaching for his wallet as he absently watched her move about the dingy little hotel room, cleaning up and slipping back into the scrap of fabric she called a dress. Standing up, he pressed a couple of bills into her hand and walked past her towards the miniscule bathroom. "Thanks; just let yourself out."

Disposing of the condom – paranoid after Darla's stunt? Never – he stepped in the shower, letting the tepid water pour over him as he began washing off the cloying scent of the woman's perfume and the overpowering smell of sex – couldn't have any of his team guessing what he's really up to when he regularly slips away now, can he? They'd panic and call the Sunnydale group and then _they'd_ panic and they would all want to start with the chains and the spells, and, as the teens in question were fond of saying, that would be of the bad. Because, really, what could he tell them? "Oh, don't worry, I can have all the sex I want and it'll never bring Angelus back. Why? Oh, that's easy – I can't have the person I want; and no, Buffy, I'm not still carrying a torch for you. The person I want can't stand me." And then, without fail, he'd look at _him_.

Him. And there was the crux of the problem, even if _he_ could return his feelings, Angel himself could never manage to let anything happen. Never mind he was an almost 200 year old master vampire, those 20 odd years of human life with his devoutly Catholic family loomed over him and tortured his conscience. Hell, he couldn't even masturbate successfully most times while thinking of _him_ without remembering all too clearly the horrible beating his father had given him the one time he'd let his eyes stray where his father could notice. Even in the early years with Darla and Dru and Spike, as much as he may have been tempted by the cocky blonde, he couldn't bring himself to touch him in any sexual way, instead taking out his guilty desires on the girls, fucking them hard and rough into whatever surface was close.

And then came the soul and all those years he wandered lost, only to then have Buffy more or less served up to him on a silver platter. She was so passionate and innocent and sweet and strong and just one big bundle of contradictions in a knockout little package and, yeah, there was the whole Romeo and Juliet thing going on, but it had truly felt like, together, they could overcome any challenge, any evil, from hell demons to jealous best friends. And in that one shining moment as they came together, everything seemed so perfect and clear and wonderful… and then it all went to hell.

There's nothing like being both an observer and a participant in your own body. The things Angelus did horrified him, angered him, and made him despair of ever finding redemption. But at the same time, it wasn't until Angelus had control that he truly began to notice _him_ in any way other than a nuisance. The way the fear would pour off of him even as he stood his ground, protecting himself and his friends as well as a regular human could. But he'd always been that way – angry and defiant and full of passion, willing to do what the girls wouldn't even think of, no matter the cost to himself. He didn't' think he'd ever forget that pause before "The Lie," as he'd heard the girls calls it, watching the knowledge flicker through the boy's eyes that he was jeopardizing his relationship with Buffy in order to do what was right.

Angel didn't bother dressing before lying down on the lumpy bed once more, his hand absently trailing over his stomach as his thoughts wandered. He remembered the last time he'd seen _him_, still as obnoxious as ever, but there was just something about him, maybe that fearlessness or maybe just his scent – so rich and heady, like some decadent dessert. His scent… hadn't that been a surprise, overlaid as it was by the demon girl's and, even more surprisingly, Spike's. And it was in that moment, noticing how well the boy had grown up, seeing the physical strength and confidence he'd gained with that tempting scent surrounding him, that Angel had realized _this_ was who he truly wanted, wondering how he'd never realized it before…and knew he'd never have him.

Vaguely hearing his cell phone ringing, knowing it was one of his team, possibly with an emergency, he continued laying there, palms pressed hard against his eyes as he felt cool liquid trail down his cheeks. How could he save anybody else when he didn't even feel like saving himself; it'd be so easy to just lay on the bed and let the morning sun take care of him. And behind his closed eyes, he could see _his_ face, challenge flashing in deep brown eyes as he mocked him, taunting him for being weak, for proving every insult right. And so, it was for _him_ that he got up, got dressed and called Gunn back, that he fought the demons and saved the innocents and stumbled, injured, into this own bed just before dawn.

And if, in those last moments before he drifted to sleep, that mocking look turned approving, the angry eyes softening, it was only him that knew and only his empty, lonely room that heard his quiet sigh as healing sleep claimed him.

"Xander…"


End file.
